


hanging on the hook of your splendor

by agent_orange



Series: hanging on the hook of your splendor [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Oral Sex, Seasonal Affective Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should probably take off the rest of your clothes," Brad suggests, lips quirking up into a smile. "I've heard that helps you get warm faster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	hanging on the hook of your splendor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [preromantics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/gifts).



Waking up with new emails in his inbox is usually a good sign; waking up and finding out that one of those emails is from his Advanced Operating Systems professor to cancel class for the morning is an even better sign. There's no window in Brad's dorm room, but he checks weather.com and sees that it's eleven degrees outside, with wind chill making it feel even worse. Also, the snow's piled up to over to two feet and it's only quarter to nine.

Still, Brad's definitely not complaining about an unexpected snow day—still a relative novelty in his sophomore year, after living in San Diego his entire life. He should catch up on his reading for Econ 201 and maybe fuck around with his computer, but he's been meaning to get up-to-date on a few shows. He has one class tomorrow that'll almost certainly be cancelled; he can work then.

He showers, gets dressed in layers, and hurries through the freezing air to Bartlett for some breakfast. Up earlier than many, there are plenty of options. Today, the food looks better than usual, and Brad fills his plate with bacon and eggs, toast, fruit, and a couple muffins. His phone buzzes with a 'winter weather alert' from campus health and safety. He deletes it and texts Nate, who's probably been up for at least a couple hours, most likely hard at work on his essay for that prissy ethics class he's taking "because the description in the course catalogue was actually really interesting."

 _come to my dorm later_ , he types with one hand, fork still in the other. _I have some weed, die hard, and smartfood. you really can't ask for more._

 _what about condoms?_ Nate sends a reply just as Brad's finishing up his grapefruit juice. That makes the bottom of Brad's stomach fall out. Last spring, Nate finally managed to get his head out of his ass, and they started fucking around when they got back from summer break. It hasn't been anything serious, though (they spend a few nights a week in each others' dorm rooms, talking and fucking and drinking (that last one only when Nate's feeling particularly rebellious)), and the fact that Nate's talking about condoms—thinking ahead to make sure they're careful—means he's making plans, and making plans indicates he's considering a switch from casual to something steadier. Like a relationship.

Brad's not terribly interested in another relationship. Not after Julie dumped him for Mark two weeks before Brad left for Chicago. It wasn't even because of the long-distance aspect, what with Julie staying in California and Brad living two thousand miles away. That he probably could've handled better. No, it was the fact that he "wasn't involved enough."

 _always prepared_ , Brad texts back. He thinks Nate's different from everyone else—a better person, mostly—but Brad's not going to turn down sex just because someone stomped on his heart.

* 

He's moved on from assuming Nate's had a hard day and passed out on one of the library couches (which would annoy Brad, but he'd understand) to being a little worried that Nate hit his head on his desk or something and is bleeding to death. He sends another text ( _you ok? i got the movie all ready to go_ ) and cracks open a book, since he's got nothing better to do.

Microeconomics might be one of the most boring subjects ever. Someone probably invented it for the sole purpose of pissing Brad off. Game theory and collective action are about to put him to sleep when there's a pounding on the door. _Finally_ , he thinks.

Nate's lips are a scary shade of purplish blue. If it weren't for the flush on his cheeks and nose and his rapidly-chattering teeth, he'd look hypothermic. His parka's zipped all the way up to his chin, but clearly it's fucking useless.

"What the fuck _happened_ to you?" Brad asks, ushering Nate in and closing the door behind him.

"I-I w-w-wanted to s-see what b-being the Iceman was like," Nate stutters, and Brad has to smile. Even with eyelashes that are stuck together from the snow, Nate manages to be funny.

"You're hilarious," Brad deadpans. "And you look like you're going to fall over. Come on." He takes Nate's jacket off, amazed at how irresponsible Nate was when he got dressed this morning. All he's wearing are those tight gray jeans Brad loves because they make Nate's ass look amazing (even if they do get stupidly narrow at the ankle), a green v-neck (which Brad knows is a t-shirt), and a thin hoodie. "How long were you outside?" he asks, stepping in to wrap his arms around Nate. It's kind of awkward—Brad's not really a big hugger, and touching Nate isn't weird, but it's not something they do.

Nate feels like a block of ice, but at least his teeth have stopped chattering so much. "Don't know," he answers. "I had to f-finish up my essay in Regenstein. Needed one of their enc-encyclop-pedias."

Brad's only been to Regenstein a few times, but he knows it's about fifteen minutes from The Beej, where he lives. Judging by how heavy Nate's bag looks, it probably took him even longer, weighted down with all his textbooks. "Why didn't you take your bike? It would've cut your trip in half, at the very least."

Nate shrugs. When he tucks his head down again, it tickles Brad a bit, even though it's no longer cropped short. "I didn't have any coffee this morning," he says. "Probably wasn't thinking like myself."

"Clearly," Brad snorts. With Nate all pressed up against him like this, Brad can feel Nate's heartbeat (a little rapid, he notes); he can feel how Nate's muscles are defined, but not overly so; and he can feel how Nate's starting to get hard, pushing against Brad's thigh. "No wonder you're cold, what with all your blood rushing to one area."

It takes Nate a minute to get it—still not caffeinated enough, probably—but then he does and he's smiling, not shying away from Brad at all. "What can I say?" he asks, and unzips his hoodie. "Insightful, sarcastic electronics geniuses turn me on."

"You should probably take off the rest of your clothes," Brad suggests, lips quirking up into a smile. "I've heard that helps you get warm faster." Happy to help, he tugs Nate's shirt over his head, glad that his skin's a little less freezing than it was a few minutes ago.

"Hey, I'm still cold!" Nate complains. But it doesn't matter, because they're kissing soon, Brad's warm breath mixing with Nate's icy, Nate's cold fingers curling in Brad's shirt.

Nate's breath is clean-tasting and minty-fresh; Brad can't resist sliding his tongue between Nate's lips for better access. Nate goes with it, yielding to Brad's touch, his hands on Nate's face and back. He _mmm_ s a little, and Brad tries to pull him closer, hipbones bumping as their bodies reach a stopping point.

The bed's only a few feet away. Brad backs off so he can see Nate's face and raises an eyebrow in question. His answer is one of Nate's wicked grins and the sight of Nate's perfect ass walking over and sitting down on the blue checked comforter. Now that Nate's shirtless, Brad can see all the marks he put there. A bite high on Nate's left shoulder; scratches down his chest; a hickey on his neck. It's not something Brad's normally into, public displays of affection or claiming someone, but Nate makes him want to.

"One of the librarians stared at me all morning," Nate interrupts. "She wouldn't stop looking at my neck like I was some kind of freak."

"Prude," Brad says, moving in to close the distance and unzip Nate's jeans. It'd be so easy to slip his hand inside Nate's boxers, but he doesn't yet. Even though he can feel the warmth through the material, he doesn't.

"Fuck, Brad. I'm still fucking cold," Nate repeats. "Either get this shit—" he gestures to the various computer parts scattered across the comforter "—off your bed so I can warm up, or do that your fucking self."

Brad sweeps the parts into a box, which he sets on the desk, but doesn't fulfill Nate's other request. "Look who's pushy today," he comments. They haven't...done anything like this before, nothing with power plays or dominance, but the idea of tying Nate down and doing whatever he wants makes Brad's dick hard in his jeans. If Nate says something, he'll stop. "Say _please_ , Nate."

"Please," Nate says, and it's not just perfunctory. The flush that means he wants it is spreading across his chest, so Brad makes good on his word, settling with his knees on either side of Nate's hips and leaning down to catch his mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. The bed isn't long enough or wide enough to fit both of them comfortably, and Brad's trying to avoid crushing Nate, especially because the way Nate's pushing his hips up to meet Brad's is so _fucking_ good.

Underneath him, Nate's still shivering a little, but Brad can't figure out if that's due to the cold or his arousal. "Hey," he says, touching Nate's jaw, his hair. "You could take a hot shower, if you wanted. I have—"

"Fuck, _no_ ," Nate insists. His mouth is right next to Brad's ear, words distinct and forceful. "I could stay here all day." He does pull the blanket up so they're both underneath it: a little pocket of warmth sheltering them from the cold. Between that and the intensity with which they're kissing, Brad's getting overheated, so he peels off layers until the feeling's gone.

Of course, Brad's not going to let something as trivial as temperature get in the way when he's doing his best to make sure Nate's mouth stays red and chapped for at least a couple days. The bite he leaves on Nate's stomach is so Nate can touch it later and remember. From there, it makes sense for Brad to dip his head down even lower and open his mouth just enough for the head of Nate's dick.

Nate arches up, surprised, and that gets more of him in Brad's mouth. "Shit, sorry," he says, trying to pull away, but Brad's hands anchor Nate in place. _Don't be_ , he says with his eyes. So Nate lies back, his right hand reaching for the headboard for something to grip. With the other, he strokes Brad's short hair. He's not trying to direct Brad, or even trying to hold him in place so Nate can use him. He's just reaffirming his presence, and it seems more intimate than anything else he's done.

That's not going to stop Brad from getting Nate off, though. Just because he's been burned doesn't mean he can't put that aside as best he can and focus on Nate, who looks like a picture of sin. The way he's spread out on the bed. Legs open enough to give Brad room, and more to show he wants it, makes Brad's breath catch in his throat.

There's a little tub of Vaseline on the bedside table, and Brad manages to reach it without shifting much. Nate watches, rapt, as Brad coats his fingers with more than what's necessary. Concentrating takes more effort—all Brad wants to do is stare as Nate takes his fingers, not a noise coming from his mouth, but then they're wouldn't be anything _to_ watch.

He's not prepping Nate for sex, not today. Even with his jeans keeping his dick constrained, Brad doesn't think he can wait that long. He eases a finger in, and then another, curling them just so to make Nate gasp, push back in search of more.

"Easy," Brad says, before he swallows Nate down. He skims over the place where Nate's most sensitive, making a few passes before working a third finger in. The feeling of Nate stretching around him makes Brad's dick jerk, and he knows he's got to get out of his clothes very soon.

So he speeds up his motions, sucking harder and moving his fingers faster. It's not enough to make Nate come, not yet, but judging by Nate's breathing, he will be soon if Brad keeps this up. Again, Brad tamps down his own increasing need to bring Nate to the edge and gently nudge him over, mouth still on him and fingers still in him.

Nate's sweating by the time he comes down, his cheeks and damp flushed with it. There's come glistening on his thigh, what little Brad couldn't swallow; he drags his fingers through it, making an even bigger mess.

"Stop," Nate scolds, lazily batting Brad's hand away. "Do you want..." He doesn't finish his sentence. They both know what the rest of it would be.

"If you're up for it," Brad answers. He's seen how Nate's energy level drops after Thanksgiving and doesn't return to normal. He knows that, in the winter, just two chapters of reading or a walk across campus can make Nate lethargic. Making Nate come and then jerking off next to him is hardly a punishment.

Nate shakes his head. "I'm good." The set of his jaw tells Brad he means business, and when Nate puts his mind to something, there's no stopping him.

Not that Brad would _want_ to stop him, not when Nate hastily strips Brad down, ignoring Brad's t-shirt and socks in favor of wrapping his hand around Brad's dick. Nate keeps his fingers curled tight, setting the pace; Brad doesn't have much room but he pushes his hips up anyway as the pressure builds at the base of his spine.

" _God_ , he says. "God." _I thought you said God was dead_ , Nate laughs, and Brad presses his mouth over Nate's to shut him up. It's hard to enjoy himself when Nate's mocking him, and Nate's fingers feel so good that Brad'll deal with getting teased later.

*

Choosing a college for this fic was _so hard_ , even after I got past the fact that I don't see Brad as the college type. I'd find a school, and then there'd be something wrong with it. That happened, oh, at least fifteen times. But I found one, and [](http://coyotesuspect.livejournal.com/profile)[**coyotesuspect**](http://coyotesuspect.livejournal.com/) told me what I needed to know that the internet somehow couldn't.


End file.
